Step by Step/Issue 24
This is Issue #24 of Step by Step. This is the sixth and last issue of Volume Four and Part One. South Pass It was an endless hell, brewing beneath the pearl-blue skies. The fire was too quick, too ferocious to be stopped. The strong mid-day winds helped the flames to spread and spread. It had an enormous appetite, and it gave motion to the everlasting ash clouds outside. They dotted the sky above Nolan and Carter, first the blue expanse had shrunk to a small line, then pencil thin, until the entire sky had been blotched out by darkness. In the heart of the ash cloud, Nolan was starting to grow uneasy. He had unbuttoned his denim shirt, using the cloth to cover his face. He smelled the acrid, bitter stench of the air, even though he had the shirt over his entire face, minus for his eyes. He had almost very well forgotten about Carter, who he was dragging, until the soldier started to buck over in a coughing fit. Nolan gave another quick, ripping tug and found themselves out of the cloud. He made the mistake of lowering his garb, so he breathed in a heap-ton of sulfur-smelling crap. Carter looked up at him, groggy-eyed, with his lips coated black and eyes red. He smiled nervously. Something flashed beside them. It brushed the air near Nolan's back. Nolan trailed the car with his eyes, watching as the police car shrank into a faded speck down the road after its U-turn. If it had hit him, they would've both been squashed. It hadn't, however, so the smoke got another chance to choke them the fuck out. The ash cloud reached them, tangerine-colored embers swirled madly, and Nolan winced when one made it into his eye. It burned, but he could handle it. Nolan tore into his denim jacket's pockets, sliding out a handkerchief. He had kept it since his last workday, and it was plastered with oil stains. He'd used it that day to wipe some gunk off his shoes, and cough into it after handling the engine of a Buick. The Roadmaster had, well a couple problems. The biggest of which made the vehicle prone to constant strings of wee-ooo, wee-ooo, wee-ooo. It had been torturous, though at most amusing, according to Freddie, his co-worker who had been sent off to shit knows where. He gave the handkerchief to Carter, who took it and covered his face with it. They were getting farther away, and the cloud had begun to weaken and loosen at this distance. He wondered how long Carter had been in there. The motherfucker ought to have brass lungs, or he'd would have gotten sucked up into the flames. Unless, if lady luck was true to her word, Carter had simply gotten out through the window, albeit with a sure-done pair of lungs. "Cocksucker, mother–''!" The road had jumped up a foot of ground, most likely to make room for the rest of the driveway. He fell on his back, hitting his ass on a manhole cover. Carter had gotten the least of it, barely hitting his head on the pavement. A curtain of smog blew over them, and for a second both of them could see the blue sky, then the smoke draped itself over them. Nolan sucked in a breath, surprised that it was more or less breathable. He fumbled on the ground, looking over and over. It was empty, the road was magically empty. Until a pair of shoes, with dirty ankles showed up next to him. There were more. Other feet scurried past each other, and each owner walked with the same slow, agonizing pace. Nolan didn't doubt himself; he shot up and found Carter trying to get up, so they helped each other up. They were hunched over, like two wounded coons in a garbage bin. "I don't wanna scare you," Nolan said, "but we have to move." Carter nodded, and he gestured to his holster. He slid his pistol out, said "eight shots left", and nodded to the mechanic again. "If it gets bad enough, we'll use it." Carter looked at him. "I know," he said. The mechanic led the way, pushing through the black fog with his arms slapping away smoke. He kept his head low, and told Carter to do the same. They were almost out, this time Nolan could see people, yes people, moving. He sucked up a big breath, and heard a muffled noise behind him, like when a rolled up magazine hits a rug. He didn't have time to register it, as the next thing he saw was Carter brush against him, and knock them both into the fresh air. A huge sprawl of abandoned cars lined this part of the driveway. He expected a better show, something like a limo ready to pick 'em both up. He stepped on a bottle of bleach, among other things like soda cans and crates of water bottles. The people who were here tried to stick it out a while. Nolan saw two crazies thump the side of one car, both of them trying to find a way into it. He heard a shriek come from inside, but then heard something else that caught his attention. Nolan stopped dead in his tracks. The driveway was long and narrow, cars filled up the width of the path, and the honking could be heard a tenfold of that. He guided Carter through the thin strands of smoke and in ten seconds or so they were both breathing fine. "Right here," he heard Gordon shout. He was leaning against a car, a station wagon that had seen the better part of its life, filled with heartache. The station wagon was surrounded by several people, maybe six or seven, it was hard to make due having ash-in-eye syndrome. Nolan felt Carter grip his arm. The two met at height, finally, and moved on to the vehicle. There were numerous others, though sometimes a lucky driver would escape by, while others in their high-enders grew stuck in the mud–which in this case meant you were as good as dead. Nolan saw a man in khaki workpants hobble over the street. It took a while to see ''what the man was running from, but took longer for his eyes to even choke down what they saw. The man had hit the tarmac, his head knocking into the ground, while a lone crazie fell upon him. The action was quick; the crazed man with buggy eyes and puffed cheeks sunk deep into the man in khaki's windpipe. Nolan hoped to God, though it was a fast prayer that might have earned him a medal in the Indy 500, that the man had gone when he struck the ground. "Your plan is useless," Jacob said, who was moving to the stationwagon's driver's seat with diligence. He was hauling his daughter, the candy striper who Nolan had seen in the gym during day hours. "What's the matter with you?" Malcolm said. He sidestepped, allowing Jacob to pass. This only made him more exasperated. "Listen, I'll tell you something. First I get my ass handed to me by some thugs, the same ones who started that fire, right after my wife dies. You see, me and Sarah were going to pick up my daughter," he held Kerry to his side, nearly crushing her. "Sometimes she likes to help ... help around the hospitals, clinics, like her mother, and obviously one them isn't here." This seemed to hurt him. "So I want to use this car, this one, to make sure nothing happens to my girl ..." Malcolm raised his hands, as if in defense. "We can all drive down to the church, and then you and your daughter can do whatever you want with it." "Lived here my entire life, never seen a church down this lane." The sergeant buckled down. "The governor's Christian, Mr. Davis, there are a lot of them." Wayne, who stood behind Gordon at the behind of the car, noticed that one of the people near them had left. Jacob looked at him. "You got a ballpark figure on the gas?" The biker sighed, inspected the stationwagon, and sighed again. "The bug's got enough to hold up to twenty gallons, I say, but there could be less." Malcolm's arms went flat to his sides. He said something about how nobody should go off half-cocked, and Jacob gave him a real serious dead stare. That was when Nolan saw Gordon toss the sergeant the car's keys. "You can all rot in hell," Jacob said. His voice was dead tired. He let Malcolm into the front, watched Wayne help the other soldier in next, then one of the paramedics named Lilian. He and his daughter too went in, and that was what signaled Nolan to grab Carter and high-tail it to them. Three or four people, diseased and ugly from the sickness, were right beside the two when they ran. The two had made it in a rush to the car, when Jacob had started to pile his daughter inside. He grabbed at his chest, frightened by them. "What the hell is the matter with you?" There was a rip in the sky, a lightning strike, which clattered and then faded. Malcolm looked at both of them with, momentarily, fierce eyes. Then his face went slack, opened his mouth like he was about to speak, but just let them in. He said there was room for more, and then went on to say something about coming back here and how he was to help them all. It was December 8th. ---- He had lost count how many strikes he'd given the door. It had been enough for the fire to eddy into every lane of the high school. Tendrils of flame swirled around him, about to catch up to him, and then the door gave out. He fumbled inside, caught his breath, and looked around. It had been Hector Pacino's home for the past week, after The Man had gotten his comeuppance in the form of blood. Lyle pawed through the cabinets first, swallowing the somewhat fresh air inside each. He was in the fourth office, next to where Eugene's sister had laid dead. A cigarette hung wet in his mouth. He opened the drawers next, their metal astonishingly hot, shutting them all in distaste. The putrefying smoke billowed in his lungs, and with each inhale his worries lightened, and then he bit down on the butt. It was a common thing to do, for Lyle, after all. The rich oaky taste would stay, linger for the rest of the day, until tomorrow when he'd take another bud. He was being optimistic, sure, but nothing could hold him back from it. He caught the cigarette between his teeth, and bit down again, instantly finding ease. A cough or two left him. There was a thud, one that was drawn out and wooden. He thought it as another breaking rafter, or maybe the cracking of wall wires. Whatever the noise had been, it seemingly faded. He glanced behind his back, and took in what he saw. The fire hadn't ceased. Rolling webs of orange, what had first been white lashes in the darkness, trailed into the office. He had to hurry up. A low groan voiced behind him. Lyle patted down the countertop, and in the darkness stumbled upon a blazing hot piece of metal handcuffs. He took them and smiled. He took a drag of his cig. It tasted like a plumber's handkerchief. He thought it was a terrible feeling, then reminded himself he had been cig-stuck for the past ten years. More work for him. His lungs stiffened, held still, then relaxed like a warm blanket had covered them. It would have been pointless to try to stop now. Then his headache went away. He didn't even know he had one. It was relaxing, clarifying. He pulled out, swiping up some sort of sweater from a wall hook, and paid out into the main office. The cigarette fumbled, until he grabbed and flicked it away. A large, granular ash cloud rolled towards him, first purple, then black, then veined, until it reached him and its color lost novelty. He ducked to the side, lunged for the wall, and watched the glow of fire in awe. He wiped his face and moved on, stopping near the flattened door, and walked out the exit. He would have stopped then, since his original plan was to catch up to Nolan, however he needed to do this. He swore he could see cars moving, beyond the smoking window. The entire wall, and the lockers as well, had crumbled. They made an awkward, rigid pile of rubble and debris. He didn't hang around for long. The sweater veiled his face, but it was barely working. He thought about how much gunk he'd sucked up from the fire, and how much he was still breathing in. The cigarette was a different taste to him, this smoke and ash was another taste, one that was more lethal and quick. Lyle looked down the hall, keeping against the wall, and stuffed the handcuffs into his pockets. A petal of flame soared upward, then another, and then again, again, until they had their fun and all crackled back down. Moan after moan delicately entered his earshot. He split to the left of the hall, glancing downwards where he thought he would see the janky man's body. However, that wasn't the case. The floor was covered in rubble, tumbled over lockers, and other sorts of mess, but no body from before. Lyle grumbled, and turned the corner of the hall. Here he took a breather, but it was a slight one because this corridor had as much smoke as the other. Flames had sprinkled across the bridge of lockers, as well. He took this in, and slogged through the mess. It would take a while, but eventually he made it to a window. It was boarded up, however its glass had been shattered. Less work for him. He grabbed the boards and pulled his mouth close to one of the holes, and took a breath of air. He thought to himself how long he had left, how much time until the whole damn school fell upon him, and trapped him in its tomb. He forced himself from the window, and worked his way through again. A wall of fire separated him from entering one side of rooms. He guessed this way would be an exit. If Nolan was right, then surely this would be where he ran to the night before–their trading spot from the week ago. He smiled into the sweater, turned to the hall's corner, and found himself staring down a flight of stairs. The way down was blocked, smothered in a group of wood planks and scorched-brown metal parts. He could smell the greasy stink, and gagged, then walked past the stairs. If he had stopped, fumbled through the debris, and gone down the steps, he probably would have been safe. He racked his brain over it. Then something loud groaned behind him. He looked, and saw what appeared to have been the ceiling now on the floor. The floor was now a foot thicker with rubble, and several electric wires fizzled in the air and dangled. He faced straight again, and hurried along, until he came to another turn. If he had stayed there, he would have been toast. It was how they 'lectricuted boys in The Hole. The image burned itself into his eyes. He came to realize then that he was standing in front of a big double door. He made sure the ceiling above him was still solid–it was hard to tell under the rising ash cloud. He ducked in, and found himself in a dim-lit storage area. The hum of emergency lights came first, then diesel fumes from old canisters of motor oil. He tripped over a few after closing the door behind him. The storage area was long and big. Lyle landed on the side of a plywood partition, a set of emergency lights fading out above him. What mattered was that, even with the oil smell making him sick, the air was breathable. He lowered the sweater, and draped it over his shoulder. His breathing came out low, scared like a kid on a new bike. It steadied, so he moved on. He bumped his head on a pipe, and shot off course and ran into a stack of boxed cans. A soda bottle hit the floor next to him, and fizzling was all he heard, until he heard something move behind him. It was probably his imagination, something that resulted from a sip of both fear and adrenaline. Four months before, he would have seen this in a horror flick and called the character a dumbass. But this was all too real. The double doors swung open, breaking the darkness and splitting his vision with firelight. "Won't start?" A figure, an outcast among the flames, pointed to the loading bay. Lyle looked, and saw the whole plywood wall was stacked with cleaning supplies, chemicals, and bleach. He gulped. If any of that were to catch one little ember of fire, he would be serving himself a dinner in Hell. The emergency lights faded out and they were left in total darkness. The man closed in, and Lyle backed away. He bumped into a pillar, his head filling with a sharp pain, but all senses came back when his shirt collar disappeared into a fist, and again his head thumped the pillar hard enough for him to see bright stars in the darkness. A carton of bleach landed on him, spilling something all over him. He heard a sizzling noise, and then his chest grew wet, and that was when it happened. And it stung like an ass. He felt for his chest, finding his fingers unraveling burned parts of his shirt. That was all he got to do, because then the same fist struck his face. His chest tingled, felt raw, and ''burned. ''Brock hit him again, this time right below the chin. Lyle fell against the pillar, and the soldier lifted him back up, egged him another hit, and then let him crumble over. The sergeant went for the loading bay, tipsy and awkward on his legs. His cane was gone. When he reached the loading door, he lunged at it. He struck the metal door with two angry fists–then eventually light shot into the loading dock. He looked out, pale and bleeding. A fresh breeze of December air. It was electrifying, the air went through his hair, and cooled the sweat on him. He finally smiled. The loading door groaned on its steel dual tracks, rattling and shaking, as the building itself moved like a 747 taking off. Brock caught himself for a moment, and fumbled with holding up the door. He checked himself, and found out that the fire was spreading to the double doors. He went to action quickly, but then a new light hit him, first blue, then a string of purple pain in his head. His lame leg looked bent, twisted, under what looked to be a busted pipework from above. The roof was falling. The above shook once more, then again, and the first layer of ceiling split above him, and knocked him into the floor, his face grinding against the outside pavement. His back exploded, like an A-bomb had dropped. The loading door was on him. He slithered around, but it was useless. He stopped. Something moved behind him. Then something became a someone. It was Lyle, groping the floor and crawling over wreckage. A red bag of mulch laid between him and Brock. He crawled over it, and stood up, free. He then went down again, making his height to the smallest of inches to pass under the door. He chased the light. Brock groaned next to him. He glanced at the soldier, silent. Once out, he went back and dragged Brock out under it, then the loading bay door snapped shut. And then something else snapped shut. A pair of handcuffs. Lyle hurried to tighten the sweater over Brock's lame leg, which had started to stain a barn-red. Dime-sized pockets of blood stained the pavement. He tightened it more, and he himself grimaced. The centerfold of his shirt was gone, shriveled up and burned, and the skin beneath had grown into a dozen shades of black and red. The chemicals burned, burned like beshitted bullshit, but he handled it. He straightened, looked to see that they were in front of a brick wall. Good show. He had attached one set of the handcuffs to a pipe, one that was connected to the wall near the door, and the other to Brock's wrist. He figured Brock had taken notice by then, because all he did now was curse here and there. The two met eye for a split second, and something moved, something shifted in their eyes, but it was nothing more than that. Both were shocked, tired, and scared sick. The brute, the thug, Lyle, made the first move, turning away from the scene, and walked straight to the brick wall. He examined it, guessed it was a five foot drop, and leaned his head back to exhale, then he scaled it over. Brock screamed. It was the cry of a dying man, left behind. Issues Category:Step by Step Category:Category:Step by Step Issues Category:Issues